Pity the child who has ambition

The dull pain of the past hardships digs into gentle skin like a butter knife.
When swollen eyes close, a beautiful picture appears.
There is a warm hand. It’s reaching out an invitation.
Hearts are racing, somewhere. Not mine.
The warmth slowly began to fade, leaving nothing but an empty gesture.

The smell of a 17 year old’s jacket, the feeling of being preyed upon and the horrible pangs of alcoholic liquids forming a pit the size of the Atlantic ocean.
It’s wrong to have these understandings. These are not my things to understand.
Sweep it under the rug.
It’s for the best.



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